Free Bird 1-6 Part One
by audrey.bautz
Summary: Herbert Holmes is a man out of time, who finds himself locked away for a crime he doesn't remember. He knows he is innocent, if only he could get out to clear his name. With the help of some cellmates, Herbert has the chance to escape and rediscover his past!


Free Bird

1.

_How might one, start a story such as mine?_

Herbert Holmes scribed on the tattered parchment within the dull flame of a candle. Shadows danced across the small cell as the moon shared her ethereal glow in the midst of the room. His pen jetted back-and-forth between each word as the rickety-table shook in rhythm with his pressing weight. The sweltering heat of summer migrated the 8x8 Ft. cell, driving Herbert to brush away the sweat drowning his black curls. He looked up to gaze out the slender window, with only the dark night to greet him.

_Tis' well beyond the stroke of midnight, having heard the bell tower in the churchyard chime a most beautiful ensemble. It seems that no matter what, they will always happily ring you, into the passing moments you can never recover. O' how bitter-sweet, time is._

"Light out Holmes!" cried a shrill voice from the surrounding darkness.

Herbert could barely process his train-of-thought with the foul tone poisoning the air with disdain.

"Even pigs like you need their sleep."

Herbert searched, but only came across the slight smudge in the moonlight. The dreadful creature remained silent, before turning to leave, prompting Herbert to return to his work.

Why, am I here? My one source of light is a tiny window and though the bars are rusted and the surrounding cement somewhat worn they hold just as strong this moment as they did the very first day in creation. There are three exactly one inch apart totaling the window to be seven inches including the bars. Seven inches of liquid golden beams breaking through to bathe me in sweet sentiments.

The light jostled in its fatal moments as the wick dispersed from breathing the flame. Herbert placed his pen upon the table and stood to his feet, the cold stone floor pressing up against his slippers. He turned around to the back of the cell until his hands fell blindly upon the bunk. Throwing back the wool cover he slid beneath the sheet and soon fell into the foreign lands of sleep.

2.

Upon waking, Herbert had a habit of sharing his first thoughts with the world by way of the window. His morning goes as follows, waking up to the shrill cry of the guard, Herbert would stare up at the top bunk, blink a few times, and after some fun with the guard, finally rise. He would promptly make the bed, pulling the sheet and blanket over the pillow and tucking tightly the ends beneath the mattress. He'd run his hand atop as needed to assure no wrinkles or knots in the sheet. Then on the opposite side passing the table he would ready himself for the day and once dressed would sit at the table and stare out the window. Within minutes two guards both sporting matching blue uniforms, and pathetic patches of hair barely thick enough to acknowledge, came stomping down the dark corridor outside Herbert's cell.

"All right Holmes, let's go!" They grumbled.

The shorter of the two reached toward his belt for the keys and after some time searching, inserted the warped key into the rusted lock. Holmes could see through the tiny window, the two men. The proud wisp of self-righteousness stunk up the air through the thick door. Their beady eyes glaring out from beneath a large bushel of hair. They held a smirk mixed with a grudge of failure, one could just see their entire lives living out completely in the small town surrounding the prison. This, made Herbert laugh causing a disturbance in their demeanor as one said:

"Eh, what's so funny?" He asked with a grimace.

Herbert walked out and stopped between the men, not realizing just how small they were; he gazed down at the two but did not speak.

Herbert marched between the men through the corridors, three to be exact lined with at least a dozen doors identical to his on either side. The hallways were cold not just in atmosphere but in appearance sending a shudder down Herbert's spine. The three men echoed the bare walls as they slobbishly slammed their shoes on the floor. And finally after a great deal of walking through the corridors they came up to the cafeteria's entrance, surprisingly a white door. Voices could be heard on the other side, some harsh in tone, others weak, while some even calm. Again the shorter of the two went before the others and pulled open the door. A bright room full of windows greeted Herbert; faces, cruel, fearsome, rugged faces halted their lives briefly to gaze at the new arrival. The air became thin and reeked of rotten eggs, as Herbert tried desperately to hold his breath.

"Come on, we aint got all day!" The taller of the guards cried shoving the prisoner in the room.

Herbert walked in, a few feet before stopping awkwardly to glance around. The room was huge, with a large wall containing five windows at the back and three windows lining both far walls on either side. The ground was decked out in a grotesque checker-pattern, while the ceiling displayed a curious set of lights resembling chandeliers. The room held ten long tables aligned perfectly with one another. And far off on Herbert's left, there stood a window no longer than ten feet where he could make out some men in white jackets and the same smug grimace which seemed to own most of the faces in the room. Herbert walked with the guards toward the window as one began to reach for a metal plate. Once on arrival Herbert was surprised to see that the window was in fact the kitchen where the men were receiving their breakfast, and once settled in, he sat at the nearest table to begin a dissection of the contents on the plate.

3.

"Holmes!" The guard called.

Herbert looked up from the parchment toward the door.

"It's time, let's go."

And with that said, the clanging of the lock unhatched, proceeded by the loud shriek of the door.

Again Herbert was led down the same corridor with identical doors and out into the only this time they turned left to walk down yet another corridor leading to an office.

"Holmes, please, come in!" Cried a voice most foreign to him.

The guard turned, leaving Herbert to the irritating voice whom, by then, had begun insisting upon Herbert's entrance.

"Mr. Holmes,"

Herbert sat in the nearby chair, and gazed about; the room had the sickening smell of detergent and displayed an elaborate show of awards. A little man with a pristine glare bouncing off his smooth bald head, studied the large, rugged visitor before him. He wore a rather big white coat with a name "Beaderman," printed above the pocket. He had a set of tiny cold blue eyes unsettling in their appearance shielded by a pair of spectacles.

"Please," he insisted, "make yourself comfortable."

Herbert adjusted the backing of the chair to meet his comfort and sat.

"Do you know why you're here?" the tiny man asked.

Herbert thought for a second.

"Honestly, I haven't the slightest idea." He replied.

"Alright, let's begin then. Your name is?"

"What?"

"Your name, state your name."

"Herbert Holmes."

"Age?"

"34."

"Very good Holmes . . . now answer me this: where are you?"

"Oh . . . " Herbert's awkward silence propelled the doctor to answer:

"You . . . are . . . in an . . . Illinois . . . ? "

He waited for Herbert to complete the sentence, for it was no doubt he was in a prison.

"Prison?"

"Yes! And what year is it?" The doctor asked again looking up from the clipboard he grasped.

"Year?" Herbert asked.

He was cautious in answering this as it might have been a trick question.

"Um . . . ?"

"Oh . . . come now Holmes . . . it's 1965."

Herbert shook his head bowing it until the man was vanished from his peripheral sight.

"Likes?" The doctor strongly asked.

Herbert stopped at this question to ponder the meaning.

"Likes?" He asked.

"Yes," the man answered, "what do you like?"

"Well . . . I'd like to be outside. To be free."

"You and I both know that is not possible."

"Why? I am just as entitled to a life as any other man."

"You gave up that right a long time ago."

At this remark Herbert was stunned.

"When . . . how did that happen?" He sincerely asked.

The tiny man smirked as though discovering an advantage-point on a board.

"You cannot be serious?!" He finally replied.

He examined Herbert with cautious eyes. As Herbert pleaded for some explanation.

"How do you not know?" The doctor asked after some exchange in glances.

"Alright. Let us say you truly haven't an idea of why you are here." "What do you propose I should do about this?"

Herbert quietly watched the man.

"Okay then," the doctor began. "You will never be free because, over ten years ago you took the lives of twenty-seven women."

He paused to wait for a reaction but upon none, he continued.

"You systematically lured many of your victims back to the house you owned on South Main Street and West Marlin, downtown Chicago. There you had built an entire house of horrors where you could do cruel, vicious acts of torture upon the innocent victims you took."

Herbert began to shake his head.

"No!" He stated, "I could never do such a thing."

His eyes swelled-up though before they could produce the tears he wiped away all evidence.

"Do not tell me, that after so many years, you, have grown a heart." The doctor replied coldly.

"Why you were obsessed with death and the ways of committing this. You stated your idol upon entering this facility, to be that of H. H.

Holmes."

Herbert stared blankly into the cruel blue reflection of the harsh little man.

"Where do you think 'Holmes' comes from? . . . You changed your name . . . you've stated how you are the essence of the madman."

"No!" Herbert interjected.

"My name is Herbert Holmes . . . I was born in Maryland 1931 . . . I grew up with my mother, father, and sister . . . "

"And then you took it upon yourself to reenact the gruesome slaying of twenty-seven women?

"I . . . I . . . never did that." was all Herbert could choke out.

4.

The day passed in increments of work, leisure, then ended with the lock up of all and any interaction, as Herbert returned to his cell. He sat at his table staring intensely out the window the evening setting in over the trees and for the first time Herbert realized he could finally view the landscape which stretched for miles into the horizon. He longed for sense any sense to clue him in. I would NEVER hurt another living being, he thought, tis' just not possible, I haven't any hate nor dislike let alone a want to take another's life. The burning in his eyes returned as he blinked away the tears. He glanced down at the parchment which displayed the picturesque art of a story, his story. Though now, he wasn't too sure of what was real.

_They tell me I will never leave and that I am a monster. That I supposedly killed seven people ten years before this date in such a cruel and gruesome way they cannot bear the sight of me. I swear as God as my witness, I am not a killer. Something else is going on and I will not rest until my name is cleared. I HAVE to leave._

Herbert placed the pen beside the paper and stood up. He began to study the structure of the cell by pinpointing all the fractured areas lining the window and frame of the door. The walls were natural slabs of aged concrete as wares and cracks began to form. However, one minor mishap could lead to a great escape, it seemed the window, a rectangle in shape was framed at the top around by brick; brick so warn the slightest holes could be spotted. The correct pressure used could be enough to break the bricks giving way to the bars.

"Hey!" A voice interjected. "Time for dinner." It was the guard retrieving Herbert. He studied the gray blob on his plate though found himself drawn to the other prisoners. His table only cradled that of five others a few seats away.

"Pardon me," he squeezed out.

Three of the men looked up and glared.

"Do you know who I am?" Herbert asked cautiously.

The closer one, a younger looking man with a shaved head was the one to answer.

"Everyone knows who you are. You're a national headline."

Herbert leaned in closer.

"I am?" He asked.

"Of course." The young man cried.

Herbert stood to his feet and moved down to the five men only welcomed by cold glances.

"But what if I didn't do it?" He asked leaning in toward the younger guy.

The men stared blankly at this question, too shocked it would seem, to answer.

"I - I - I'm serious ." Herbert stuttered.

They smirked at his sincerity.

"Okay." The younger man replied, "what if you didn't?"

"Well . . . how . . . might I . . . be able to . . . clear this?"

"Clear? There aint no clearin'. Well, if . . . as you say . . . you were in fact innocent. Then . . . they may . . . well that is there would be, a slight chance of reopening your case. And then . . . if new evidence is found, you may get to go to court. But you're looking at months to years."

"Years? I . . . can't wait years." Herbert replied.

"Can I be honest?" The young man leaned in. "Once you've been found guilty and sentenced to death, there is just no goin' . . ."

"DEATH?" Herbert cried out.

"Yeah, Death that was your sentence . . . it is everyone's sentence. You're on Death Row." The man calmly stated.

"I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" Herbert shouted, "I don't even know how I got here."

His reaction perplexed the men, as he stood to his feet. He jetted past a pair of guards heading toward the door. And just upon reaching it, he felt a sudden jerk pull him back, and knocking the air out of his gut. Then he felt a pain strike his face, head, legs and arms until he could no longer stand it and passed out.

5.

Herbert woke up to a thick coding of black as the night had long descended. The moon again peering through the bars and the choking summer heat wrestling with the stuffy bed sheets. He wiped the sweat from his head only to find a dressing. He threw off the wool blanket and sat up resisting a pain pounding throughout his head. His arms and legs felt heavy and sore while his stomach endured a nausea he was not accustomed to. He took several deep breaths and spun his body so that he could rest his feet gently to the floor. He spotted the candle in the moonlight and struggled to his feet. He reached about blindly for the chair and taking it in hand held it tight lowering himself into it. A mist had formed over the treetops as a million tiny stars burned bright above the world. Herbert took his head in his hands and massaged the sides. The pounding grew in frequency as he worked to ease the pain.

_Tonight, I discovered I was destined to die for the crimes I have been accused of. I am so lost, that I don't even know how to see the world anymore. Perhaps, I am better off dead._

"Mr. Holmes!" A cry came from the door. "Mr. Holmes, you awake?"

Herbert pushed himself up from the table and stumbled through the dark toward the door.

"Hello?" He faintly asked.

His ribs ached as he fell toward the door which produced a most unpleasant sound when he caught himself.

"Mr. Holmes, my name is Kenneth Rigby. We met earlier at dinner. You asked me about reopening your case."

Herbert lifted his head as though it weighed a ton and focused his eyes out the four inch window. There, a face began to bloom depicting that of a young man in his late twenties, clean-shaven, and possessing a certain amount of Italian in his broad chin and long nose. He gazed with a sadness that broke Herbert the moment they're eyes met.

"Ye-e-s . . . my boy. Kenneth." Herbert whispered assuring the young man.

He smiled gently at this and leaned into the window so to hear Herbert.

"W-w-h-a-t c-an I do f-o-r you?" He slurred.

For sure a certain side-effect from the beating his head sustained.

"First off," the young man began, "I'm real sorry for what they did. There was no reason for that."

Herbert could hear the sincerity in his voice.

"And second," he continued, "Was you for real about the "not doing it" bit?"

Herbert gave into his weight and leaned upon the door as though he were a battered structure with only a few beams for support. He closed his eyes as they began to ache from the struggle of maintaining them open.

"Were! Fi-r-s-t, t-is "w-w-e-r-e-e," n-ot "w-a-s." S-e-c-o-n-d . . . y-e-s, I-I-I w-a-s." He spewed out the last few words through the window.

"I-I-I s-w-e-a-r, t-t-h-at, I-am-no k-i-l-l-e-r." Herbert concluded.

He grew weary leaning on the stone cold door and found the power of sleep a too great of weight to fight any longer. Only before departing, one thing did bother Herbert to the extent that he had to ask:

"H-o-w a-r-e y-y-o-u o-u-t of y-y-o-u-r c-c-e-l-l?"

The young man whose attention seemed elsewhere came back to the reality of the pitch-black prison.

"O-oh," he stuttered. " . . . one of . . . the . . . guards . . . owe me."

He laughed nervously.

"I-I see." Herbert replied.

"Well," the boy broke thru, "I'd best be getting back . . . we can talk more later."

With this said, Herbert's visitor vanished within the shadows of the night leaving Herbert to himself.

6.

The following morning Herbert limped down the corridors and into the cafeteria, gaining the attention of every soul upon entrance. His black curls fell dead in a damp layer of oil, while his face sported the wounds sustained from the previous evening. His left eye nearly swollen shut protruded a great distance, while his nose bent out of its normal frame; his uniform fashioned gaping holes and large rips. He walked between the two guards who held tightly to his shoulders, their steps always one second faster than the wounded Herbert's. The guards halted the tired prisoner before reaching the window.

"Alright, Holmes," one began, while releasing his harsh grip.

"You know the drill."

The two guards stepped back as Herbert limped toward the counter. An assembly line of rustic pots filled the entire length of the window exuding an aroma of fragrance. Upon the traditional collection of lunch he turned to the familiar faces from the day before. The youngest one, Kenneth, Herbert remembered, waved to him and smiled.

"No funny business Holmes," the guards grumbled.

Herbert hesitantly sat before Kenneth as he caught a glimpse of snarls from his neighbors on either sides.

"So," Herbert began.

"This . . . is death row?"

Kenneth glanced up from his gurgling-cuisine.

"Yep!" he replied.

Herbert scanned the pale complexion of his friend and then said:

"I don't know how I got here."

Kenneth however only maintained his straight-laced demeanor as Herbert continued:

"I am so confused. They say I killed many people . . . And then bragged about it."

Kenneth then leaned in toward Herbert sincerely asking:

"You mean to tell, you don't remember anything? Nothing about your life?"

Shamefully Herbert hung his head:

"I only know this: That I am NO killer. They have mistaken me for someone else."

"Well . . . from what all the papers say, you were beggin' to be caught. After a "good night" of killing as the New York Times put it . . . you'd go down to Miller's pub, and describe in detail what you'd do, to the patrons of the bar." Came a thunderous-voice further down the table.

Herbert looked over to find himself staring at a prisoner of large stature.

"No," Herbert detested.

His palms developed an incredible amount of moisture within seconds and his skin became flushed of all color. The surrounding inmates backed away for fear of a repeat from the night before.

"Alright men, finish up! Many festivities for you all to enjoy." Remarked one of the guards.


End file.
